Kaitlyna's steps were sure, her grip on his arm steadying as the path grew steep, cobbles slick with dew. She spoke little on the descent, but Aragon felt her awareness of him, the way her body angled slightly toward his warmth, and the faint tremor in her breath when their hips brushed in passing a narrow turn.
"The high priest, Father Elaric, has fasted these three days," she said at last, as the temple's arches loomed. "Visions came to him in the smoke. He says the god's hand rests upon you, my lord—like it did upon the founders, when the old kings fell to flame and shadow."
Aragon grunted, noncommittal, his mind less on prophecies than the curve of her hip beneath the wool. Visions were cheap coin in hard times; he'd heard enough in his years to know they bent to the speaker's needs. But he let her words fill the silence, nodding as they passed under the lintel, the heat of the inner fires washing over them like a lover's sigh.
